Dietrich presented their tickets at the door and they shuffled along with the crowd down to the three rows of reserved seats. Leni Riefenstahl had so far not yet arrived, though a seat with a cardboard tag DIRECTOR was being held in the middle of their row.
Katja twisted around to gaze up at the loge. The Führer was already in place, with a number of guests, presumably diplomats. In a loge off to the side, Goebbels sat with his wife Magda. Katja looked away, repulsed.
In the rows nearby, she identified Sepp Allgeier, Richard Koehler, Hans Gottschalk, and Walter Vogel. “I wonder where Marti Kraus is. Oh, I see him, down there, on the left. With his wife and son.”
At that moment, a tall man marched into the hall in a full dress SS Sturmmann uniform. The blackness of his tunic contrasted splendidly with his blond hair and handsomely etched face. Only after focusing on him for several seconds did Katja realize it was Erich Prietschke. She had to admit, the look suited him. Now, where were Rudi and Peter, she wondered, then spotted them two rows behind her. She twisted around to wave, and both waved back.
Katja checked her watch. Eight o’clock exactly. Where was Riefenstahl?
Just then, the door at the top of the aisle opened and the manager of the cinema guided Leni Riefenstahl, in a dark-blue evening gown, to her seat. No sooner was she seated, when the lights went down and the buzzing of the audience died. A live orchestra in front of the stage played march music for a few minutes, then the curtain parted, revealing an illuminated screen.
Katja watched, hypnotized, as the title appeared in elaborate Fraktur lettering, then lines of text with a sound track of Wagnerian fanfares in the background.
On September 5, 1934, 20 years after the outbreak of the World War, 16 years after Germany’s Suffering, 19 months after the beginning of the German Rebirth, Adolf Hitler again flew to Nuremberg.
March music followed as a cloud bank appeared and gradually, through the mist, the towers and spires of the ancient city of Nuremberg came into view. For a brief, dizzying moment, Katja seemed to float in free air, wafting slowly downward toward the city. But the camera’s eye shifted, revealing an airplane, a Junker 52, swooping low from out of the clouds and casting its cruciform shadow on marching columns below. An entire city on the march, perhaps an entire nation, and she was caught up in the thrill of it.
The scene fragments that she had previewed after filming now were part of an inspiring narrative. Scene followed scene, of uniformed men, of joyful blond children, of monuments to German history and culture, of Beethoven and Bach: a compelling testimony to the beauty and the truth of the movement.
A brief, subversive thought percolated up from somewhere deep in her mind. Of Yevgeny Khaldei, the Communist Jew, and of Rudi and Peter, secret homosexuals. Her forehead tightened in an involuntary frown as she struggled with the contradictions plaguing her. Then Dietrich in his handsome Wehrmacht uniform took her hand again, and his warmth was a comfort. She closed off the critical part of her mind and recalled the teamwork in Nuremberg, when they had all worked together like madmen. She’d never forget the taste of the canteen food in the Schlagater house, the gritty eyes she had at the end of a fourteen-hour day of work, the hilarity of some of the cameramen trying to film while on roller skates, the tobacco smell of Marti Kraus in the film elevator high on the flag stanchion, and, of course, the last supper with the Berlin crowd.
After tonight, would she see the twelve of them ever again?
PART TWO
SEPTEMBER 3, 1939
BERLIN, GERMANY
Chapter Twelve
It seemed like ages since Katja had visited Rudi and Peter, and so when Rudi Lamm greeted her warmly at the door, she embraced him energetically.
“Come in, our little angel of mercy. How’s the nurse’s training coming along?” he asked between pecks on both her cheeks.
“Long story,” she said, taking his arm and walking with him into the familiar living room. Peter emerged from the kitchen with a dishtowel tucked into his belt.
“Hellooo,” he sang, wiping his hands. “Just in time. I’m making Knödel soup.” He repeated the greeting kisses and then returned to his post.
“Sit down, please. And tell me about the nursing ‘story.’ Peter’s soup won’t be ready for a few minutes, anyhow.”
Katja dropped onto one end of the sofa and crossed her arms, a story-telling posture. “Well, as you know, after the two Olympia films, Frau Riefenstahl went back to doing feature films, starring her. For that she needed a whole different kind of staff and had no more apprentice work for me. The only other film jobs were with the propaganda ministry, and I couldn’t stomach that. So, I did the nurse’s training at the Charité hospital.
“So, have you got your certificate and a position?”
“Certificate yes, job no. But that’s because Dietrich is on duty in Austria. Oh, sorry, I mean the Ostmark.”
Rudi touched her wrist with his fingertip. “You don’t have to use Nazi language in this house.”
“Yes, Austria. Well, I thought I would apply for a position in Vienna, to be near Dietrich. But he told me his battalion is being sent to Poland. It’s too bad because things are not going all that well in Nuremberg.”
“What do you mean? Is your mother-in-law tyrannizing you?”
“No, nothing like that. It’s just, it’s bad enough being a bride with nothing to do, but Dietrich is hardly home. He’s on duty most of the time and loves the army. He’s just been promoted to Feldwebel, by the way. But we still don’t have our own house, and this will be our fourth year of living with his parents. I’m suffocating there.”
“In a little Bavarian house in Nuremberg? I can imagine,” Peter observed as he added a third place setting on the table and returned to the stove.
“Yes, and they keep going on about having babies to continue the race, soldiers for the Fatherland. It’s as if they’d memorized Goebbels’ speech on motherhood. Fortunately, I’ve convinced Dietrich to avoid that until we have our own home.”
Peter came from the kitchen again, this time carrying a porcelain soup tureen in a towel. The steam from the soup was still on his spectacles. He set the tureen down and wiped them with a napkin.
They took their places and passed around bread while Peter ladled out the steaming broth into their bowls. “Oh, it’s really good,” Katja said.
“Yes, I know,” Peter replied. “My mother’s recipe. The trick is to add ginger. “But speaking of Goebbels, Frederica seems pretty happy working there, because it’s been ages since she’s visited. I saw her by accident about a week ago, buying a paper at a kiosk near the zoo. We chatted for a while, but she seemed nervous, so I let her go.”
“Frederica? Oh, I’d forgotten all about her,” Katja lied. “How did she…uh…look?”
“Beautiful as ever, though a little shopworn. With her boss traveling around, keeping the party line going and the Führer happy, she must be pretty busy.”
“Or maybe she’s busy keeping the propaganda minister happy,” Katja said, then regretted the catty remark. That it was probably true made it even more regrettable.
Peter collected the empty soup bowls. “Why don’t you apply for a position here in Berlin? Dietrich can visit you here just as well as in Nuremberg, and you’d be near us.”
“I thought about that. I could live at my father’s house and probably get a job at the Charité. It’s just that I’ve never stopped wanting to film. All the time I was studying bandaging and disinfecting sores, I was wishing I was somewhere else with a camera in my hands.”
“I know the feeling,” Rudi said. “Why don’t you ask Leni Riefenstahl if she has any other projects in the works? She might know of a film someone else is doing.”
“Isn’t she in the US, promoting her Olympia film?”
“Not any more. She came back yesterday. She called me and asked if I would be available for some portrait photos, but I had to tell her no, I’ve got a project starting in Vienna.”
“She’s b
ack?” Katja was suddenly buoyant.
“Yes. Give her a call now. I even have her number.”
*
“How was the America trip?” Katja asked, stepping into Leni Riefenstahl’s apartment.
“A little bit of it wonderful, and a lot of it terrible.” Riefenstahl moved aside some half-unpacked boxes and motioned her to sit down. “It started off very well in New York and Chicago, but in Los Angeles, things began to deteriorate.”
Katja took a seat, noting how little Riefenstahl had changed in four years. She had a different hairdo, a slight filling out of the face, but still the same nervous energy.
“Did you meet any big Hollywood names?”
Riefenstahl bustled around her, unpacking, laying things out on a table, talking as she worked. “I did, or was supposed to, but then the strangest things happened. Gary Cooper invited me to dinner, but then suddenly he cancelled the invitation. Even Walt Disney, who was charming and enthusiastic about the Olympia film, said he couldn’t watch it because it would get him in trouble with powerful people in Hollywood. It was schizophrenic, with some people wining and dining me, and others condemning me and preventing people from buying or even seeing the film. As it turned out, it was the anti-Nazi league that hounded me wherever I went. They insisted I was somehow responsible for the attack on Jewish businesses and synagogues in November. Mr. Sheehan, one of the big MGM producers, finally informed me that, no matter how good the Olympia film was, because of anti-German sentiment, it could never be shown in the United States.”
“So the trip was a loss?”
“Oh, no. Not a loss. I had lots of good experiences, but it was not profitable either. The press seemed uniformly against me, and when the time came to leave, I was fed up.”
“So, now you’re back, what do you plan to work on?” Katja tried to sound casual.
“Everything is at loose ends right now, but I’m hoping to form some of the unused Olympia film material into short sport films. Then there’s Tiefland, which keeps dying and being reborn. Why? Are you looking for work?”
“In fact I was, though—”
There was a knock at the office door, and Riefenstahl called, “Come in”.
It was an assistant of some sort, a young woman. “Frau Riefenstahl, I’m sorry to interrupt, but the Reichsminister just telephoned.”
“Tell him I’ll call him back later.”
“No, Frau Riefenstahl, he’s already hung up. He just said to turn on the radio.”
“What? Whatever for?” Nonetheless she strode to the corner of the room where a wooden cabinet radio stood and she turned the knob. It took her a moment to tune it sharply, but then they stared at the radio, hearing the familiar shrill voice addressing the Reichstag:
Last night, Poland has for the first time shot at us with regular troops in our own territory. Since 5:45 this morning, we have shot back. From now on, bomb will avenge bomb, poison gas will meet poison. I will lead this war against any and all and as long as necessary until the security of the Reich and its rights are vouchsafed.
Leni Riefenstahl’s voice was a whisper. “Germany’s at war.”
Chapter Thirteen
Katja was pleased with the speed at which she had put things in order. She had written Dietrich to say that she was working again for Leni Riefenstahl, carefully crafting her letter to suggest she was merely filling the time until he could return and they could settle down together in Nuremberg. It would be a week before she would get a reply, but even if he disapproved, the move would be a fait accompli. She had already informed her parents-in-law of her decision, and while Konrad and Gertrude Kurtz were disappointed at losing her, they acknowledged that she could wait for her husband in her own house as well as in theirs.
In a matter of days, she had packed her belongings and transferred them back to Berlin to her old room, to her father’s enormous delight. They had a celebratory dinner together, and the next morning, Katja reported at eight o’clock at Leni Riefenstahl’s apartment in Westend Berlin.
Riefenstahl was packing two large suitcases, one of film equipment and the other of clothing. “Things have changed,” she announced. “I’ve contacted officials with the Wehrmacht and have proposed working as a battlefront film journalist. Sepp Allgeier and a few others will be joining me in a few days. If you’re game, you can come with us to Poland. Obviously, you have to decide immediately.”
Caught off guard, Katja watched mutely as Riefenstahl crisscrossed the room, dropping items into one or the other bag. A string of good reasons raced through her mind of why she shouldn’t go. It was dangerous, it would horrify her husband and father, it was madness. On the other hand, she couldn’t resist the novelty and adventure of it.
“I’d love to. Can you give me a couple of hours to prepare my baggage and tell my family?”
“Certainly. An officer from the Wehrmacht will pick us up tomorrow morning for training with gas mask and pistol. Be here before nine and you’re part of the photojournalist team. Bring your own camera. We’ll try to get you something better, but if not, you’ll have something to start with.”
Katja turned toward the door, excited to be doing something both useful and slightly shocking. Only when she reached the street did she recall that Riefenstahl had said “pistol.” With a shock she realized there would be shooting.
*
An officer from the Wehrmacht appeared in a car before the Riefenstahl apartment precisely at nine o’clock, and by ten, they were at a base at Grünewald. After an hour of verbal instruction, an officer led them to the quartermaster’s building.
“We have to wear uniforms?” Katja asked as someone handed her a folded pile of clothing.
“Yes, Fräulein. In civilian clothing, it’s too easy to be confused with enemy partisans and get shot. These uniforms will be issued to all military reporters.” He pointed them toward a supply room where they could change clothes.
With slight misgivings, Katja tried everything on: shirt, trousers, jacket, all in blue-gray. The trousers felt awkward at first, but when she paced around the room, she began to appreciate the freedom they allowed her. Finally she could open her legs when she sat down.
Once they passed through the quartermaster’s barrack, they began gas-mask and sidearm instruction. Both filled Katja with equal measures of fear and excitement. It was the first time she had actually touched the instruments of war, the one that could save and the one that could kill.
The next day, they left Berlin in a small military plane for Poland. At noon, they reached the headquarters of Army Group South and reported to Major general von Rundstedt who, preoccupied with a brand-new war, greeted them indifferently.
“Unteroffizier Hartmann will look after you. Good luck,” he said before returning to his maps.
Unteroffizier Hartmann saluted smartly, then directed them toward an open half-track personnel carrier. Eight men already sat in the open vehicle. Katja and Riefenstahl climbed onto two seats in the rear and piled their suitcases on a third. Hartmann climbed in next to them, and the vehicle started east.
Katja studied the backs of the soldiers sitting in the seats ahead of them. They wore steel helmets, field gray uniforms, and had half-a-dozen objects strapped to their backs: a mess kit, canteen, gas-mask canister, shovel, and bread bag. They all held rifles, and she had already seen the black cartridge belts they wore in the front. She wondered if their thoughts wandered as hers did, with mixed anxiety and pride, toward the battlefield. A great drama was about to unfold, one that the ordinary dull people at home would have no idea about, and she would be part of it.
After some two-and-a-half hours, the half-track stopped outside a village.
“What is this place?” Riefenstahl asked the Unteroffizier.
“Konskie. We’ve just captured it. General von Reichenau has his command center over there.” He pointed toward the railroad station.
Suddenly they heard gunfire in the distance. “Are they still fighting?” Riefenstahl asked, with appare
nt alarm.
“They shouldn’t be,” he said, leaping from the half-track and signaling the men to follow him. “It’s coming from the center of the village.”
With barely a second thought, they left their suitcases and ran after the soldiers, with only their cameras in hand.
In a few moments, they arrived at the edge of the market square. “What’s going on?” Hartmann asked.
A soldier stepped forward. “Yesterday, some of the Poles killed an officer and four men. The bodies are laid out in the church, and the troops have some of the men from the village digging a hole. But anger’s running high. We fired off a few shots to keep them in line.”
“Sounds like our first story,” Riefenstahl said, drawing Katja into the square to get a closer look. A circle of German soldiers was training rifles on six Polish men digging the pit. The soldiers were shouting, and it was clear from the faces of the Poles that they didn’t understand German and believed they were digging their own grave. A few dozen other villagers hung back fearfully at the edges of the square. The Feldgendarmerie arrived, declared that the Poles had nothing to do with the murder, and ordered them released.
Riefenstahl took up her camera and began to focus on the scene, but the soldier next to her slapped the camera away. “No pictures!” he snarled, but his voice was drowned in the general shouting of the soldiers. Katja had just taken hold of her camera, but under the angry glares of the men she returned it to its case.
When the pit was dug, the grave diggers stood together in the center, eyes wide with terror. Still with no idea what was being shouted at them, they tried to climb out of the pit, but the soldiers kicked them back in.
“What are you doing? Didn’t you hear what the Feldgendarmerie said?” Riefenstahl shouted.
Tyger, Tyger, Burning Bright Page 8